Classic Poem

When from the crowd that voice was raised
 That blessed the Mother of the Lord,
Not her the Son who loved her praised,
 But all who heard and kept His word.

O answer meet! to her how dear,
 To her too great her crown to boast!
The meek were glad that praise to hear:
 The meekest, loftiest, joyed the most.

Above her soul's pure mirror crept
 No mist: no doubt within her stirred:
She asked not, “Who His words hath kept,
 Like her, the mother of the Word?”

Her tender heart rejoiced to think
 That all who say, “Thy will be mine,”
Without or with the external link,
 In heart bring forth the Babe divine.

Chief of the prophets John might be,
 Yet, but for that his happier place
In Jesus' kingdom, less than he
 The least one in the realm of grace.

The mother of Incarnate God
 Some prophet's mother seemed , alone:
His hour not yet was come: abroad
 To noise her fame had noised His own.